


You've got to know when to hold 'em

by troubleseeker



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Cigarettes, Happy Ending, Kissing, M/M, Pining, song lyric fic, train rides to nowhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 04:02:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20269699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubleseeker/pseuds/troubleseeker
Summary: Set way, way before season1. Bobby is alone on a train on his way to a hunt when a bearded stranger joins him for a chat and some extra fun before they retire to sleep.Inspired by 'the gambler' by the bearded stranger himself, Kenny Rogers.





	You've got to know when to hold 'em

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GertieCraign](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GertieCraign/gifts).

> Gertie whispered her devious fantasies and delicious headcanons into my very willing ear, and voila! Enjoy.

The train is a terrible way to travel, and Bobby vows for the umpteenth time this trip that he’s never ever going to get on one of them again in his entire life. They’re rattly, and boring, and there’s nothing to damn well do. No radio, no  _ nothing _ . Didn’t even bring a goddamn book, but that’s his own damn fault. The heat wasn’t helping either, but at least was finally getting dark.

He huffs, tries to get comfortable on the understuffed bench for the millionth time, and fails… again. He’s three stops, and twelve goddamn hours away from his newest hunting grounds, and if he stays in the life he’s damn well driving to the next stupid ghost. 

The train lurches as it pulls away from the station in bumfuck nowhere and gains speed like the driver doesn’t know how to handle a clutch properly, and Bobby hates it. Hates it even more when his duffle bag manages to roll off the luggage rack to crash land on the back of his neck.

He’s still cursing up a storm when the door to his compartment slides open. 

There goes his fucking privacy. 

Not like his day could get any worse. So he growls a little hello at the bearded stranger in a suit of all things like he’s some southern gentleman, and shoves the duffle back onto the rails harder like that will make it stay in place.

“You mind if I have a seat?” the stranger asks, even as he plants his gentile ass down on the bench opposite Bobby. 

“You go right ahead.” He allows. This trip sucks balls anyway, might as well add small talk with strangers onto it. Maybe if he gets all the suck over with tonight, tomorrow's gonna be perfection.

“Thank you.” The man smiles, and slides his hat off his head in a cowboy like tilt. Bobby feels compelled to nod his head, and he does so just to be polite. 

The man he’s now sharing a ride with is older than he is by a bit, greying at the everything but in a silver fox kind of way. He doesn’t look bad, that’s what he’s saying. Nothin else. It’s probably just the suit anyway. Making the stranger look as suave and gentleman like, compared to Bobby’s jeans, plaid, and hat … he looks like a trucker that lost his truck.

Somehow, they manage to stay quiet for long enough to have the sunset. Their compartment goes all sorts of gorgeous colours that Bobby can’t really appreciate before the shoddy lights flicker on and bathe them in yellow. It would be perfectly acceptable to pull the too hard bench into a too hard bed and ignore the handsome man eyeing him, but he’s just not tired yet. 

Pretending to be asleep while a guy in a suit sits there and watches you isn’t one of his deviances, many as they may be. So he just fucking well sits there. Sits there and watches right on back while the man smiles.

Eventually, the silence weighs on them just that inch too much, and Bobby cracks.

“Going anywhere nice?” He manages, knowing full well that’s he’s going the route of the awkward stranger on public transport but what the hell they’re stuck here till morning and then some. Might as well say more than ‘can I sit down?’ and ‘sure’.

“Son.” The man starts, leaning forward like he’d been waiting for the invitation, and Bobby doesn’t like it when people call him that ... makes him feel like a green behind the ear youngster when he’s not, and he’s halfway to scowling when the man continues … “ I've made a life out of readin' people's faces. You know?”

Bobby feels himself relax. He does, he’s paid for his house but there’s bills that keep on coming no matter how many ghosts he sends on to god knows where, and money’s got to come from somewhere … the man doesn’t look like a cop. Yeah.” He drawls, emphasizing the used-to-smoke rumble of his voice. “knowin' what the cards are by the way they hold their eyes?”

The man nods, smiling like they’re old friends now. “So if you don't mind me sayin'” there’s a pause as the guy measures his gravelly words. “I can see you're out of aces.”

Bobby huffs. Turning to stare out of the window. Fuck this guy and whatever he’s selling. He doesn’t know the life he’s lived. He doesn’t know the shit he’s been though. No one does. That’s the fucking problem. God damn supernatural shit going down and no one cares that he’s fighting it.

He continues to ignore the guy till he hears the unmistakable sound of a cork exiting a whiskey bottle. 

“I didn’t mean to offend, sir. Though I can see that I have. Please,” he offered the half-full bottle across the carriage. “There’s more than a couple of hours to go before either of us gets tired enough to roll over. Forgive my rudeness?”

He eyes the stranger and the bottle for half a second before accepting it. It burns a bit as the swallow goes down. Not watered down for the trip then.

“You’re all right. I just hate trains.” He offers, smiling a bit as the bottle gets passed back. There were three beers in his duffle when he left and those are long gone. The Whiskey is a welcome respite from the rhythmic shake of the  _ stupid  _ train.

“I see. Then why are you on one? Most people own cars these days, don’t they?”

Bobby sighs, leaning back and accepting the bottle again when it’s offered. God knows he needs it. “It seemed convenient at the time?”

“I see.” The stranger smirked, gesturing for Bobby to hold on to the bottle as he rummaged through his inside pocket for something before emerging victorious with a cigarette. “Can I give you some advice?” He asked, patting down his pocket for his lighter. “Damn, you got a light?”

Bobby didn’t smoke anymore, but a good hunter always had a lighter close by. The man held the cigarette to his lips, leaning in close as he inhaled and Bobby kept the flame steady.

“Thanks. Always do lose my matches.” The man blew smoke to the side, but the haze filled the compartment anyway. Bobby didn’t mind. The man looked good like this; hand out in a casual hold, cheeks hollowed as he sucked smoke deep into his lungs.

Bobby took another long pull from the bottle. Sometimes cigarettes looked like a nice way to relax, but he only had so much money and booze came first. If you passed out drunk you were relaxed too.

“Don’t mention it.” A light in exchange for several shots of good quality whiskey wasn’t much of trade, and he knew it. The man took another drag, nodding.

“Anyway. You want some advice?”

Bobby shrugged. He owed the man his attention now, might as well listen. If push came to shove and he needed an out he could drag his tired ass around the rest of the train looking for another place to sleep.

“You ever play poker?” 

Fuck, it sounded so innocent. No way did the guy know that cards were one of his favorite ways to spot some extra cash. He was ok at it. Better still when the others had too much to drink and lost their edge. While his liver might protest a bit, it took a whole lot of the good stuff - or the bad stuff- to get him past thinking, and that’s when he raked in the green. But again… no way for this mother fucker to know.

“Sure.” He offered, taking a more sedate sip. “I guess.”

“Good. Well you know when you play, no matter what cards you get.” He gestured with the cigarette, glowing ember drawing Bobby’s eyes in the muted train car light. “They could be the perfect cards?”

Bobby nodded, eyes caught on the man’s mouth. It was a nice looking mouth. Framed all nice with that neatly trimmed beard. Looked like he might want to trail his fingers through it, cup the guy’s jaw .. lean in … not that he would, of course. Wasn’t done. Not in public like this. Not when he wasn’t sure …

“As long as the dealer hasn’t put down those first open cards, anything goes. You might have the best hand of the table, hands down. So what makes you put down that bet? What makes you take a step back’n fold?”

Bobby shrugged. 

“But you know!” The man insisted, ignoring the last of many shrugs. “If you’ve played the game for a while you know. You see that look in their eyes. The way they sit. The way the hold’emselves.” He licked his lips before wrapping them around that cigarette again and inhaling nice ‘n long ‘n deep. “You know exactly what to look for.” 

Bobby took another drink, fumbling the bottle in a way he hadn’t in a long time. He couldn’t look away from the stranger’s face… his eyes drawn to the man’s own, his lips his hands, his smile …

“You've got to know when to hold 'em. Know when to fold 'em.” Another slow inhale and exhale, smoke filling their tiny private home. “Know when to walk away. And-” He held Bobby’s gaze, unrelenting and unnervingly knowing. “know when to run.” 

He felt himself nod, felt himself lean forward, lean in, drawn to the man opposite him like a magnet. Their compartment conveniently tiny all of the sudden. 

“You’re not running, are you boy?”

“No.” He said, shaking his head almost numbly. “No, I’m not.”

“Good.” Was the answer. And then the man stubbed out his cigarette, brunt up to the filter, and kissed him. Not sweet. Not soft. Not anything Bobby had imagined his first actual kiss with a man would be. But amazing nonetheless. 

Things went fast, and near silent from there. Fumbling in the almost dark when one of them remembered the latch and the light. 

The rasp of beard against stubbled skin gives him life and the man’s rough groans and curses are invigorating in ways he never knew were possible. Cause sure, he’d had plenty of backroom flings that ended in a dick shoved  _ somewhere _ . But none of those guys had been interested in kissing.

Kissing was what you did with girls in the park.

This … this wasn’t meant to be forbidden … out of his reach. 

“Don’t start folding on me now, boy.” The man growls, yanking Bobby closer in the dark of their personal little haven. 

He isn’t sure if he manages an answer, he  _ is  _ sure how he feels about the hand crawling under his shirts and across his lower back. There’s a moment where he’s panting into the stranger’s mouth, and then he’s mouthing into the man’s neck while he allows thick fingers to dip below the waistband of his jeans.

“Then I’m raising” reverberates down his spine, and he nods, breathes harder, doesn’t beg. The fingers delve deeper when he nods over and over again. Dry fingertips find his hole, and he doesn’t pull away. Somehow, he remembers to set down the bottle before it falls over. The man makes a happy sound. “Turn around, boy.”

Unless they want to try and fit two grown men onto a tiny fold-out bed, they only have one other option. Bobby shivers, breathes, and turns to face the window; sees his heavy breaths fog up the glass as the train vibrates underneath his cheek. 

He plants his hands there too, and the stranger pulls his shirt the rest of the way out of his jeans, strokes the line of skin there before deftly undoing Bobby’s belt buckle. The leather slides out as easy as his breath, rattles when it hits the floor. His jeans and underwear follow so smoothly they might as well never have been there to begin with.

There’s slick then, pulled from inside another pocket or something but Bobby doesn’t care. He’s not folding. Doesn’t want to- at all. Even if he can’t go all-in in other situations, with other people, he can do it here. He can push his ass back and step his legs further apart. Accepts the first finger, moans at the second, gets antsy for more at the third.

“So eager to play, boy.” The three fingers push deep, deeper still, till Bobby can feel the webbing of the surrounding fingers push against his rim. He pants, resists the urge to push up onto his tiptoes. “Got a winning hand right ’ere don’t we?”

The fingers pull back, and Bobby can’t catch the whimper that follows. He’s empty- emptier than usual and for once there’s a chance to be full. No way in hell is he passing up that chance. 

“Don’t worry, son.” the man says, and there’s that anger again at being treated like a child but it’s swept away when those fingers return, and this time they’re guiding something bigger into place. “I can tell you need this. And I’mma give it to you good.”

The push stings, but he knows it turns good eventually. Many a quick fuck have taught him that. Just be patient. Just let them fuck nice and deep, and once they’re seated and they give you the chance to breathe your blood will fucking well sing. 

“Fuckign royal flush, this is.” The man crows, and Bobby’s eyes roll all the way back. The man fucks him onto his tiptoes and keeps going. Laughs. “Certainly not a straight one. 

There’s lights flashing by as they race through some sleepy wid-west town that will never know what just chugged by in the night. It’s not a steam engine but Bobby can’t see much more than the fog on the glass he’s pressed up against. 

He grunts when teeth latch around his ear, the sensation going straight to his dick. The man isn’t letting go, worrying the sensitive bit of skin back and forth. Little zings of pleasure shoot through his system.

“Don’t know what the hell’s got you so worried.” the man pants, lapping at Bobby’s neck. “I can tell it’s not work stuff. You’ve got that covered. Nice ‘n steady hands, I c’n see that. What’s got your panties in a bunch? Worried frown between your pretty eyes.” 

Bobby tries rolling his eyes through the pleasure. He’s perfectly happy to get his hole stuffed by the guy but there’s no need for either of them to try digging into each other’s lives. So what if he’s right? There’s a ghost or a poltergeist at his station, and he’s perfectly capable of taking care of it all on his lonesome. Doesn’t need Rufus for everything. 

“It’s all about love, ain’t it?”

Bobby, shoots a warning look over his shoulder, but the stranger huffs a laugh and slams home; pressing him forward over the tiny table.

“No need for worry there, son. Ass like this’n, no one ’s sayin’ no. I can tell you that.”

Bobby grunts, arches his back, and pushes back. He doesn’t want to talk. Doesn’t want to listen. Just wants to fuck. Begs for it without words. He might take it up the ass, but he’s no girl.

The stranger lets him have it. Falls silent and just nails him. The shaky rhythm of the train underneath them helping their movements along. 

Bobby is dripping by the time the rough voiced stranger reaches around to stroke him to completion. It’s strangely comforting to be taken care of before the stranger unloads in his ass. None of his other quickies have ever had the manners to think of him while they’re chasing their own illicit high.

Shaking his way through his orgasm, Bobbie realises he can feel the man come. Dick twitching inside of his ass. It should push him even firmer into the moment, but Bobby’s thoughts still wander off into dream territory.

What if it was Rufus inside of him? Rufus’ hand around his dick and coaxing the last of his come out of him?

The stranger seems to sense his wavering thoughts. This time, at least, there’s no eyes to read; the fogged window shows no reflection. He slaps Bobby’s ass before he pulls out.

“Whatever you’ve got, boy. You hold on to it.”

Bobby turns his head away. There’s nothing to hold on to … nothing ever even started. He pulls his jeans back up over the mess already leaking from his puffed hole, and slips between the sheets of his fold-out bunk. The stranger doesn’t try to initiate any further conversations, just takes his now nearly empty bottle with him as he too finds his bed.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s weeks later that he catches up with Rufus again. Finds him leaning against his truck near a fire pit he’s not going to check out too closely. The flames cast a welcome glow in the dark of the setting sun.

“I’m in, Rufus.”

The older man glares at him, angry all the time without any real reason. Ok, no. There’s plenty of reasons, and half of them count. 

“That so?”

Bobby squares his shoulders, drops his duffel to cross his arms better. He left his own car further back in case of trouble.

“Yep.”

“Just like that.”

He finds himself nodding. Rufus’ lips look perfect around the bottle of blue label - probably stolen - and it was nice to see that no matter how often he’d thought of them in their time apart the real deal was always just that little bit better. For once, Bobby didn’t force his eyes to look away. 

“Just like that, yeah.”

Rufus shrugs, somehow including his eyebrows in the movement, and takes another pull from the bottle. Like on the train, Bobby feels himself drawn in. No beard this time, but the familiar smell of whiskey makes him bold.

Rufus doesn’t pull away when he walks closer. Doesn’t twitch when Bobby leans, and leans, and finds those dark whiskey-soaked lips pressed against his own. He doesn’t pull back far after the quick peck. Only moving away an inch or two to check out Rufus’ face.

“Just- just like that.” Bobby murmurs. Rufus doesn’t look pissed, but that don’t mean Bobby’s safe. Once the shock value wears off there  _ could _ be a beating coming his way.

“Huh.” Rufus says, a smile twitching underneath his moustache, and Bobby feels his shoulders lose their tension. “Took you long enough.”

“Shut up.” Bobby barks, but his face is soft and there’s no bite to his words. 

Rufus laughs, and the tentative fingers on Bobby’s sides are a blessing. He pushes his partner into the truck, lines made familiar over days of watching finally pressed against him. It makes him hungry, more so than days without real food and nothing but beef jerky and MREs. He’s ravenous for the other hunter's skin, his moans, his pleasure. 

The last of the natural light fades, leaving them rutting against each other by the dwindling fire behind a barn in the middle of nowhere. There’s a song warbling in the background, car radio draining battery life without a care in the world, familiar yet new. 

_ On a warm summer's eve _

_ On a train bound for nowhere _

_ I met up with the gambler _

_ We were both too tired to sleep _

_ So we took turns a-starin' _

_ Out the window at the darkness _

_ The boredom overtook us, _

_ And he began to speak _

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to come yell at me on [tumblr](http://ryugarika.tumblr.com/) ... feel free to, I can take it.
> 
> Comments feed me!


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